


Flashes

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Category: BioShock
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Not Fontaine!Atlas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 20:50:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to The Riches of the Poor. Atlas considers his change in luck, the things he has endured, and the companion he's gained in the Heir of Rapture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flashes

They start regularly sharing sleeping space as a two-pronged matter of practicality and safety. With the heating blown out and comfortable sleeping options scarce, sharing is a means of survival. Besides, with each aware of the other's presence, Splicers are less likely to get the drop on them. Not that Jack has to actually worry about whether or not he’ll survive those encounters, of course--what with that ever-so-handy connection to the Vita-Chambers he’s got--but Atlas is not such a lucky fellow.

Atlas, it seems, has not been such a lucky fellow in a long time.

But maybe that is finally changing. Crossing paths with Jack, though it almost got his head bashed in at the start, has brought with it a list of things he never expected to experience again--chief among them, compassion. For a science experiment intended solely to bring about the fall of Andrew Ryan--an act in which he, unfortunately, succeeded--Jack is unbelievably compassionate. Despite being grown and raised in a lab, despite having his head tinkered with like some kind of radio, the boy is undeniably human. Atlas watches him restore the Little Sisters without hesitation. There is pity rather than hatred in Jack’s voice when he talks about the Splicers; when they fight, he dispatches them as quickly as possible, with fatal blows to the head or heart.

 _“There’s no point in prolonging their suffering,”_ he told Atlas once, when the subject came up. _“Way I see it, they’ve all suffered enough.”_

Atlas thinks about that a lot. He thinks about his own suffering and wonders if it has been more than enough. He thinks about the Splicers they’ve encountered and wonders how it is that he hasn’t lost his mind like they have. Why isn’t he screaming gibberish in the streets like they are? Is it the ADAM in their bodies? The EVE that fuels their powers?

* * *

_Sometimes, when they settle down to sleep, Atlas can’t so he watches over Jack instead. The sleeves of the boy’s sweater ride up when he moves, exposing the ghosts of bruises left by the needles. How many times has he shot up? How much is it affecting him? They don’t really talk about it._

* * *

They have yet to discuss incident in the Mercury Suites apartment. It isn’t that they’re pretending it didn’t happen or that it hasn’t changed anything. It just simply hasn’t come up. For his own part, he still isn’t quite sure what to make of it. What Atlas knows to be true is that he had no idea how much he missed what he felt in those moments. Not just the physical pleasure of getting off--although, sure, he greatly missed that, too--but the warmth of another person’s presence, the tenderness, the safety…

That’s what Atlas realizes he missed the most, what he is certain he felt the strongest during that incident; an overwhelming sense of safety that made it okay to be so vulnerable.

Sometimes they recreate those feelings with more innocent gestures. Clasped hands that offer reassuring squeezes. Gentle fingers that administer first aid. Little smiles and knowing looks… When they travel, Jack makes a point of scouting out the safest paths. He’s always so quick to defend him from the Splicers, always insistent about making sure that Atlas can get away if he needs to (and sometimes, he needs to). And when Atlas gets hurt, because accidents happen no matter how careful someone is, Jack always looks so concerned about its severity and its potential for infection.

(But here, Atlas has to revise his thoughts. It isn’t that Jack _looks_ concerned but rather that he _is_. He is always so genuinely concerned and so genuinely incapable of hiding it that it’s almost laughable. Whoever heard of an emotional assassin? Did no one consider it important while they were tinkering around in the boy’s head or was it simply an honest oversight? Either way, Atlas figures he should consider it a blessing--except he kind of stopped believing in those right around the time Fontaine’s thugs beat him so badly, he went blind for three days.)

Each little moment makes something warm flash through the hollow of the Irishman’s chest. It isn’t love, of course. Atlas has not been that naive since his wilder days back home in Dublin. Still, the warmth is nice. The companionship is better than the loneliness that came before.

* * *

_Sometimes, when they settle down to sleep, Atlas wakes to find himself curled around the younger man, his arms securely around the sleeping Jack’s waist. Sometimes, it’s the other way around with Jack snuggled close and holding on to Atlas like some kind of life-saving piece of flotsam. They wake up, disentangle themselves from each other, and they do not discuss how they spend their unconscious hours. They talk about their plans for taking down Fontaine instead. Atlas consults maps of the city while Jack forages for food. They eat when he returns, making small talk._

* * *

“I found a couple more Sisters.”

Atlas looks up from the map. There is a fresh wound above Jack’s left eye. “Did ya?”

Jack nods. He uses a freshly-bloodied hand to tip a mouthful of canned peaches into his mouth. “They, uh-- It was a little tricky, but I managed to get them without too much trouble.”

“Uh-huh?” Atlas folds up their maps. He grabs one of their first aid kids. “Hold still, kid.”

“Hm?”

There are moments where Atlas wonders if the boy even feels the wounds he gets. Maybe he was designed not to. Could also be that, like him, Jack has just gotten used to the struggle that is Rapture. Stay here long enough, endure its ugliness long enough, and it just becomes as natural as breathing.

“There.” The Irishman closes the kit. “Almost as good as new.”

Jack smiles at him. “You’re getting pretty good at that.”

“S’not exactly a good sign, y’know. Can’t y’try bein’ more careful? Just ‘cause y’got that fuckin’ Lazarus Box--”

“Atlas--”

The tone is neither an admonishment nor a warning. It’s a gentle reminder that Jack is more durable than he looks--expendable, even, to a degree. A note of awkwardness hangs in the air above them. Atlas shakes his head, mutters an apology, and goes back to the maps. Jack pats his shoulder, thanks him quietly before he starts packing their supplies. They discuss where to go next. Atlas suggests going to Apollo Square to hunt for more supplies. Jack mentions returning briefly to Fort Frolic.

“Cohen’s domain? What the bloody hell for?” asks Atlas.

“Something I want to find. Just… It’s something I need to find.” Jack looks at him. “You can hold the fort here if you want. Shouldn’t take me long.”

The words trigger a flash freeze in Atlas’s veins. Like hell, he’ll wait alone. Not again. Not so soon. The horrors of Rapture may be second nature, but they’re horrors all the same. So they’ll go together. A little side trip. A distraction from what lies ahead for both of them.

* * *

_Sometimes, when they settle down to sleep, the horrors work their way into the darkness of Atlas’s mind. He wakes up in a cold sweat, a hand clamped hard around his own mouth to stifle screams. His heart thunders in his chest. It feels like someone has wrapped his lungs in barbed wire. He tries to get calm, get calm, GET FUCKING CALM--_

* * *

“Atlas?”

“Kid--n-no--”

Atlas chokes and whimpers and the tears are hot as they go sliding down his face. He shakes his head and balls his hands into fists so tight that he briefly wonders if he might break his own fingers. And meanwhile, Jack is getting more alert. He is sitting up and he is blinking and he looks _ever so concerned_ \--

“Atlas--?” 

“No, g-go back--g’on back t--”

“Atlas…”

There is only compassion and sweetness in the way Jack says his name. He feels a hand rest on his shaking shoulder and, for a terrible moment, Atlas flashes backward to the cellar that was his prison for so long. He scrambles away harshly, screaming not to be touched, and makes himself as small as possible. The Irishman presses his face into his knees, trying to stifle the heat of his embarrassment. He isn’t there anymore, goddammit. He is _out_. He is _free_. He might even be _safe_ , in a manner of speaking--

“Atlas. Atlas, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

When he feels a hand on his shoulder again, Atlas does not jerk away in fear. Jack makes an offered solace of his arms, and Atlas shamelessly clings, shamelessly sobs and wails against that damn cable-knit sweater until there is nothing left but heavy gasps. When was the last time he cried like this? Has he ever? It bothers some part of him that he cannot remember, even though he feels almost certain that he knows the answer. What good would tears have done? When the full force of the Irishman’s rage did nothing to change the nature of his imprisonment, when it failed to return his family to his side, what use would it have been to cry, except to give Fontaine more amusement?

Why now, then? What use does it serve him now?

Atlas swallows. He feels Jack’s fingers running through his hair and down his back. Whispers of comfort cut through the dwindling panic. His heart feels like it might actually stay in his chest. The wire around his lungs loses its sharp barbs. Atlas breathes in as deeply as he can and the wire loosens its hold. He lets his arms slide free, lets his hands land dully in his lap. Jack doesn’t let go.

“Kid--” He sniffles. “Kid, I-- It’s fine. I-I’m--”

“You sure?”

“I’m fine. Well, I’m not fine, but--” Another sniffle. When Jack finally releases him, he rubs his nose with the back of his hand and wipes his hand on his pants. “Thank you. I’m sorry for… It happens sometimes.”

Jack just nods. “Nightmares?”

Atlas scoffs. “I fuckin’ wish. No. Memories. Kind that make me wish I’d packed a strong bottle or two, y’know?”

The young man just nods again. They sit in silence for a while, but there is nothing awkward about it for once. The Irishman looks at his companion. A question scrambles up from the back of his mind, pushing its way forward before he can even stop himself--

“How do you square it, knowin’ the truth now? Knowin’ what y’are, what they did t’ya?”

Jack blinks, draws his knees to his chest, and rests his chin on his knees. “I don’t really think about it, I guess. It’s almost like I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“It doesn’t… It’s like, the information is there, but my memories-- I mean, they might’ve given me some of these memories, but the rest are _mine_. I lived them. I know I did. I remember what the surface is like, enough that I want to get back.” The young man pauses. “I _will_ get back. We both will.”

Atlas can’t resist scoffing again. “And then what? We’ll raise the rescued little ones in the country with Nanny Tenenbaum, all of us some big happy family?”

And the way Jack looks at him, like it’s an idea the boy has at least toyed with…

It shouldn’t send such a brilliantly warm flash through the hollow of his chest, but for some reason, it _does_.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who started with this story and is currently confused about just what Atlas was referring to, the "incident in the Mercury Suites apartment" is the subject of ["The Riches of the Poor"](http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/7061099).


End file.
